“So, I guess this is it?” I look around my bedroom, at Rina sitting on my bed, her legs under my rumpled duvet. The only thing left in my room is my bed. The rest of it is stacked in the boxes that line the wall for the movers tomorrow.
“I still can’t believe you’re moving. We had all of our plans for sixth form.” Rina shakes her head like she can’t believe I’m really leaving, despite the obvious signs. She’s not the only one. “Who’s going to keep me sane?”
“Trust me, it’s not my idea.” My uncle pitched my dad on a business idea over in the Lake District and we’re moving. It’s been a three-week whirlwind of packing, closing up everything here, and trying to set up a new life over there. It’s been so fast I haven’t had time to dwell on the fact that we’re actually moving, but I think that’s the idea.
“You’re going to need to still tutor me in physics. I’ll never make it without you.”
“You will. I’m sure Will Freeman can teach you a thing or two about energy and magnetism.” I grin. Rina and Will got together at a party before the end of school and they’ve been going strong ever since.
“Stop. That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Rina shakes her head, then glances at my closed door before lowering her voice and saying, “How are you feeling?”
Empty. Hollow.
To Rina I say, “Okay. The bleeding has mostly stopped, which is good.”
“Good. But how are you feeling?” Rina asks again, with an emphasis on ‘you.’
“I don’t know. Relieved? Sad? Angry? Glad?” I shrug. “It depends on the day. Sometimes it depends on the hour.”
“Have you talked to Max at all?” Rina asks, although she knows the answer. I haven’t talked to him since I got the positive pregnancy test back in May. It was easier that way. For both of us. Even if he didn’t realize it yet.
“You know I haven’t talked to him.” My voice is flat and I pretend to scrape some Blu-Tak off the wall with my fingernail.
“Do you think he deserves to know?”
“Why? What good would it do? I can tell him that I was pregnant and, well, now I’m not, and isn’t it lucky that I didn’t have to actually make a decision?” I roll my eyes. “It will be absolutely pointless.”
“You had a miscarriage.” Rina’s voice is soft. “It’s not pointless.”
“It is when there’s no point in telling him. It’s literally in the word. He doesn’t need to know and God knows I don’t have a burning need to tell him.” My tone is harsh and I try to dial it back, but Rina’s been on me to tell Max since I started bleeding two weeks ago. My response has been the same every time, albeit with varying levels of snark.
“He’s going to come home eventually. What happens when he asks about you?”
“He won’t.” Or if he does, it will be out of wary curiosity. That’s it.
“Okay, but for argument’s sake, let’s say he does ask. Do I tell him where you’ve gone?”
“No.” I shake my head slowly. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“So you’re going to fall off the face of the earth and that’s it?” Rina bites her lip and I can tell she’s trying not to have a go at me.
“How can I do anything else? Tell me.” In my head I sound angry as I ask this. In reality, my tone comes out pleading. “He’ll feel obligated to come back and for what? There’s nothing he can do. He’d ruin his best shot at his future and for what?”
“What about you? What about your future?”
“My future hasn’t changed.” I shrug and pretend I don’t feel my stomach roil with the words. “This is a blip on the screen. That’s it.”
Rina studies me for a long moment. Then she says quietly, “You love Max too much to be this nonchalant. I don’t believe you.”
The truth is, I don’t believe me either. But I do believe what I’m saying. I can’t tell Max about this. I love him too much for that.
Chapter Forty-Two
“Allison and I have talked about my guilt for keeping my pregnancy from Max. But we’ve also talked through my guilt for feeling relieved about the miscarriage in the end. Saying that out loud has been hard but helpful,” I say to Scarlett.
We’re having Chardonnay therapy at Scarlett and Bradley’s – or, rather, I’m having Chardonnay while Scarlett packs for Sardinia. Bradley’s cooking dinner – and has invited me to stay – which is fab on several levels. It means Scarlett and I can chat privately, and it also means I get a decent homecooked meal that I didn’t have to cook. Winner, winner, chicken dinner – literally.
“I’m sure.” Scarlett rolls a dress and places it in her suitcase on the bed. “You seem happier. I’m glad it’s helping.”
Me too. It’s hard work dredging all that up and dealing with the emotions it unearths, but now that I’m in it, I wonder what took me so long. And if things could have been different with Max if I’d dealt with this years ago. Honestly, the what-iffing is one of the hardest parts. What if I told him? What if I let him make the choice instead of making it for him – both then and now? What if I tell him now?
I can’t deny I’ve been thinking about that too. Because the more I make peace with that time in my life, the more I miss Max. Yes, I stalk him on social media like any self-respecting ex, but it’s not the same.
Before I start dwelling too much on that, I say to Scarlett, “So, tell me about this Sardinia trip. What’s your plan?”
“We’re staying at a hotel in Alghero that’s right on the ocean and within walking distance to the historic part of town. I’m meeting my client for a working lunch tomorrow after we arrive and then we have nothing scheduled until our return flight on Monday night.” Scarlett smiles. “I can’t wait.”
“It sounds glorious. I’m jealous.” I make a face. “I’m modifying architectural drawings all weekend.”
“And I’m sure they’ll be flawless when you’re done,” Bradley says from the doorway.
“Well, that makes one of us,” I say with a wry grin. “If the client sends me one more ‘I’m just wondering’ question, I’ll probably lose my mind. If you find me at my desk staring off into space chanting ‘structural integrity’ in a deep monotone voice, leave me there. It will be for the best.”
“The structural engineer is available this weekend, too, yes?” asks Bradley. “Because all of those questions should filter through him.”
“Yes, although this is more about aesthetics at this point, like what would it look like if we remove the bay window and make it a trifold door instead? Can you make it look pretty?” I don’t hate it because it gives me something to put my energies into. The thing I’ve always liked about architecture is the attention to detail required. You put a beam in the wrong spot and the whole roof caves in, which is a big incentive to get it right.
“Well, you know if you run into difficulties, you should call him,” Bradley says. “Normally I’d say you can ring me, but I’m going to be unavailable this weekend.”
“Damn right, you are,” says Scarlett. To me, she says, “I’m confiscating his phone and not giving it back until we land back in London.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t need a thing,” I say with a grin.
Although when I’m sitting at my desk on Saturday afternoon, poring over my drawings, I can think of several things I need. None of them involve Bradley, unless he’d be willing to stab me in the eye to put me out of my misery. The pub renovation itself isn’t hard, but the client is demanding and has a what-if list as long as my leg.
I’ve been at it for a few hours when I stretch and take my phone out of my bag. I’ve earned some mindless social media time. Plus, it’s Saturday afternoon and Norcastle are playing – a fact that I probably shouldn’t know, but I do.
I log into Twitter because anything relevant about the game will be trending and the first thing I see is #MaxFoster. My heart leaps to my throat and I click on the hashtag, scanning the screen. The first few tweets are the usual – Max scored a goal and he’s incredib
le. But then I click on “Latest” at the top of the page.
Bloody hell.
The first photo is of Max being taken off the field on a stretcher. The caption to the photo reads: Foster fouled and taken from field with possible knee injury.
I click through to the article and it talks about the potential seriousness of Max’s injury, depending on the angle at which he was hit. It also mentions how Max has been plagued with knee problems resulting from an injury several years ago. My first reaction is, ‘I should have known that.’ My next reaction is that I should be there.
Which is ridiculous. I’m probably the last person that Max wants to see. Especially if, as the article speculates, Max is facing a potentially career-ending injury. But that doesn’t mean I can’t call the hospital to see how he is.
Several frustrating minutes later, I have to admit that’s not the best idea I’ve ever had. Every sports reporter in England is trying to get the scoop on Max’s condition and saying I’m a friend is as believable as saying I’m the Queen of England. Hell, probably the real Queen of England couldn’t get any info on Max’s condition right now. If I were a real friend, I’d call Max’s mobile. Or at least text.
I scroll to his contact information and study it like somehow my phone will compose the perfect text for me. It doesn’t, so finally I write: I saw that you’re injured. I’m thinking of you and sending healing vibes. Please let me know what I can do to help.
I stare at my phone for several minutes, even though I know the odds of Max texting me back right now are slim. Probably the odds of him texting me back in general are slim. Still, as I get back to work, I listen for the ding of an incoming text instead of putting my ear buds back in.
When the ding finally does come, I leap out of my seat, grabbing my phone. It’s Gemma asking if I want to meet her at the cinema tonight. She wants to see something with Daniel Craig and she knows I’m a sucker for blonds.
I roll my eyes and start typing out an excuse. Then I click over to Twitter to see if there’s any update on Max. There’s a photo of him on a hospital bed giving a thumbs up to the camera and a statement that he’s in good spirits and getting X-rays. His phone is in his other hand on his lap and I can see the yellow BBC Sports banner on the screen above his fingers.
Well, okay then. He’s obviously not writhing in pain or barely conscious and unable to get to his phone. He’s just not responding to me. I shouldn’t expect any different, but I get a lump in my throat anyway.
I spend longer than I’d like to admit staring at Max’s face on my screen before finally clicking off of it and texting Gemma back: I’ll be there! You know how I feel about a hot blond.
Which is exactly the problem.
Chapter Forty-Three
As I finish up a session with Allison, she asks, “Have you ever thought about contacting Rina again? She was such a big part of this time in your life and you lost both her and Max at a time when you really needed someone.”
“I didn’t really lose Rina.” I furrow my brow. “I moved.”
“Yes.” Allison nods, her sleek blonde ponytail bobbing. I’ve never seen Allison with her hair down or wearing make-up, but I like her no-nonsense look. It feels authentic. “But you said you lost contact with her shortly after you moved and I’ve wondered why. There are a lot of ways for people to keep in touch if they choose to.”
“We’re friends on Facebook.” I know what Allison is asking, but I don’t know how to respond, so I offer this like it’s an answer.
“That’s definitely a start.” Allison closes her notebook, which is a cue that my time is nearly up. “For homework this week, how would you feel about sending her a message?”
I’m not sure how I feel about that at all, but I imagine that’s Allison’s point. I nod slowly and say, “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I can ask.” Allison gives me a big smile and we exchange a few more pleasantries as I gather up my things to go.
But she’s given me something to think about, regardless of what I choose to actually do. It’s not that I intentionally lost touch with Rina when we moved, but I didn’t make an effort to keep in touch with her either. She’d text and I’d go days without responding until eventually she stopped texting me at all. By the time I started feeling guilty about letting our friendship fade away, too much time had passed and it was easy to let it disappear into oblivion.
I connected with her on Facebook about five years ago, but I don’t think we’ve ever exchanged a direct message. I like photos of her kids, but the truth is, I’m too chickenshit to comment because it feels disingenuous to say how cute her little boy is when I wouldn’t know Rina had kids except for social media. The fact that I don’t feel the same qualms with other high school friends is telling, too.
Ugh. Damn Allison for making me think about all of this.
The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about it now that she’s cracked open the door. I’m scrolling through Rina’s Facebook feed in the kitchen at WS when Gemma comes in the next day. “Stalking your ex, are you?” she asks with a grin.
“Oh God, he’s not on Facebook.” Max is on Facebook, but his feed is curated by someone else, like all of his social media. It’s not the same thing. “I’m actually looking up my best friend from high school.”
“Oh fun. I’m supposed to see my best friend from high school in a couple weeks. She’s coming down for work and we’re going to hang out.” Gemma grabs a mug out of the cupboard and an herbal tea bag. “Old friends are the best.”
“We actually don’t keep in touch.” I can’t help noticing how hollow my voice sounds as I say this. “I moved away for sixth form and did a crap job of keeping up with her. I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately, though.”
“Send her a message. If she doesn’t want to hear from you, she won’t respond.” Gemma puts her mug under the hot water spout, tapping her foot as she waits for it to fill. When it’s done, she grabs it and says, “I’ve got to run. Bradley’s day is manic and since I got my raise, I feel even more responsible that it runs smoothly. But maybe we can get sushi one day this week? There’s that new place by Spitalfields that’s supposed to be fab.”
Gemma doesn’t wait for my response before leaving the kitchen as quickly as she came, leaving me in the same position. Even I think I’m being ridiculous at this point and Gemma’s idea is a good one. I know Rina – or at least I knew her – and she won’t respond if she doesn’t want to.
The question is: what to say?
My phone buzzes with a reminder of an upcoming conference call, so I select Rina’s name from my Facebook contacts and begin typing: I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately and I hope you’re well. I owe you an apology that’s too big for a DM but I’d love to talk if you fancy it? Xx
Rina’s response comes late in the afternoon as I’m packing up to go home for the day: It’s nice to hear from you. Would love to talk. Send me your number and I’ll ring you once I’ve got the kids in bed. Probably after 8. X
I send her my number, but I can’t ignore the bees swarming in my stomach. Rina is the only person besides me who knows what truly happened all those years ago and, even though I’ve been working on resolving the past, it’s one thing for me to relive it. It’s another thing to relive it with someone who was there – and who can call me out on my bullshit.
I think about calling Scarlett to get a drink, but then I remember she’s in Berlin today. Gemma’s out because I don’t want to explain my relationship with Rina or lack thereof. Which leaves me to my own devices.
It’s a long couple of hours waiting for my mobile to ring. I scrub the grout in my shower for something to do, which says something about how far I’m willing to go for a distraction. When my phone finally does ring, I’ve changed into my fleecy pajama bottoms and I’m contemplating the merits of a Bailey’s hot chocolate, although my only bottle of Bailey’s is looking questionably dusty on the shelf.
I see an unfamiliar number on my screen,
take a deep breath, and answer, saying, “Do you think it’s safe to drink Bailey’s from last Christmas? Is food poisoning possible from an alcoholic beverage?”
Rina’s laugh rings down the line and it settles over me like a much needed hug. “Tara Kapoor. How are you? Is the fact that you’re contemplating expired Bailey’s a sign of how things are going?”
“Maybe.” I laugh too. “A little.”
Rina laughs again and we spend the next twenty minutes catching up. She’s married to a guy her parents introduced her to and they have two kids, which I know from Facebook. She’s a pharmacist and works part-time at Boots. When she’s not working, she’s doing every mummy and me group on the planet, which she says is the only place she meets possible mum friends. Making mum friends sounds a lot like dating and the thought makes me shudder.
It also gets me back to the reason I wanted to talk to Rina again in the first place.
“So…” I draw out the O sound and take a deep breath in. “I’ve been talking to someone about what happened back in high school and it’s made me realize I wasn’t very good to you, even though you were very good to me.”
Rina’s silent on the other end of the phone for way too long before she says, “I’m not going to lie and say it’s okay or it was a long time ago. You hurt me a lot back then.”
Bloody hell. My stomach twists. Rina’s right, but that doesn’t make it easier to hear.
“I know and I’m sorry. I just wanted to escape…everything.”
“And I was a reminder of what happened,” Rina says softly. “I know that. I knew that.”
“It doesn’t make it right.” I sink down along the cabinets to my kitchen floor and wrap my arms around my knees. “I know it doesn’t help, but it wasn’t you. It was me. You were amazing.”
“I really was.” Rina gives a soft laugh, but her tone is serious when she continues. “Why now? I mean, I’m glad you’re talking to someone about this after all these years, but it’s been a long time.”
A Brit Player (Castle Calder Book 4) Page 17
